I’d like to think that people love me so…

you guys just hafta excuse me when I shamelessly plug Ryan's gig here.

And because I have this humongous crush on this Sruvaleh member, I am going to their gig just so I could throw my purple thong on stage and possibly stalk him for an autograph. (Yeye, I have fangirl tendencies. Bite me.)

Well, if you guys are interested to come, click here for the details.

Schrodinger’s Birthday

Pinoypoets' inumans aren't fun without our Kai. She majored in Physics but the way she stirs up a conversation you'd think she took Statistical Psychology. Drinking with her is like reviving your numbing brain by transforming into the opinionated bastard that you (secretly) are.

She'd start with something general: "Which do you prefer: loving someone or having someone love you?"

That would generate a poll: Loving Someone has 6 votes. Having Someone Love You has only one vote.

Then wait for POVS to start volleying. Some would start quoting personal experiences. Some would go borrowing some dead people's words. And sometimes, when we have er… humongous brainus gracing our table, the topic would even branch to Eastern Philosophy… or Star Wars doctrines.

On the course that a topic would get stale from over-discussion, Kai would intervene to introduce another thought-provoking question: "This is for the guys: Who do you prefer screwing? Mahal or Madam Auring?"

It was so profound, the guys went catatonic. Nevertheless, with zealous prodding, Kai elicited some answers and came up with the conclusion that Madam Auring is more desirable than Mahal. (This is proof that Pinoys would rather kiss earth than commit pedophilia. Aren't we glad we have such nice principled men?)

Of course, the guys wouldn't want us girls to be left out so they asked us back, "Kuya Germs or Dagul?". Tsk, this is easy. There's no doubt that we'd choose Dagul because as Kai puts it, "I say N-O to limp dicks."

Then, Kai fired the musket once again at the guys: "Guys, would you rather be trapped in an island alone OR with a bevy of sexy Amazons…

"Amazons! Amazons!" the guys excitedly interrupted.

"… but you don't have penis?"

And the guys, having struck with the idea of Tantalusian torture, simultaneously took a long gulp of beer.

***

Other Inuman Questions (careof Tinsel and Kai)

1) What's the most perfect moment of your life?

2) What did you do that made you feel most guilty?

3) What's the biggest sacrifice you've ever done in your life?

You may or may not answer during inuman. But if you decided to, then pray that tomorrow, nobody cares or even remember that 1) you gave yourself with someone you care about, 2) despite knowing that he already has a girlfriend, which put you in a position wherein 3) you sacrificed your friendship (with him) just for one night of unity.

You may or may not answer. But you know, as the alcohol keeps pouring, you found out that these things happen like shit happens.

People. They should get insurance first before they sacrifice for a nanosecond of heaven.

PPS: San Mig Lite Disclaimer. Autographed by the birthday boy. Happy B-day Schrodinger

Beware: I’m armed with my high heels.

The other night, I incured a serious varicose detention case by standing in a line waiting for a cab for an hour.

An hour. Outside a grocery store. Where there's suppose to be a cornucopia of cabs. And on the night that I badly needed one, there's not one in sight. To make it worse, I was person-waiting-for-a-cab-#28.

If I wasn't close to having an aneurysm, I would have thought the universe cute for its many life paradoxes: "When you want something, sweat for it."

But shouldn't I asked the universe then how much I was supposed to sweat before I freakin' get a ride? I was sweating like a camel near heatstroke despite the fact that it was 1) raining and 2) raining real hard. The evening was clammy, you know. Probably because of the humid stank rising from the pavement.

Great. I was banged-up to the nines in my pearls and swirly skirt, and I was perspiring like an aerobic dancer. Of course, being squished among cartloads of groceries and mommies attending to their brats, they won't pay me any attention if I fix myself up in public. But since it wasn't me to violate that particular etiquette, I busied myself instead in moving around in my place just so my varicose won't clamp onto the ground and grow me roots.

After what seems like an eternity of waiting, I finally got to the head of the line. Manong Barker, looking up and down to my dolled-up self, asked me, "San po kayo Ma'am?" (Where to, Ma'am?)

"Ortigas, Manong."

Then a cab came. The driver said he wasn't going to Ortigas. He then, took person-waiting-for-a-cab-lined-behind-me, instead and went to drive the folk to Fairview. Then shortly, another cab came. Wouldn't go to Ortigas either. But sped along when no one was going to Tandang Sora.

*taking a deep breath*

The rain won't stop. My make-up was melting. I could win the Varicose Olympics with the rate I'm going. Two cabs refused me the time that it was my turn. Plus, I had someone rotting in Ortigas, all ready to strangle me the time I get there.  

It would be the perfect time for me to go berserk, drenched myself in the rain, and shout to the heavens in full histrionic mode, "Why??? Why now??? Why me???"

But of course, I have class… and not drunk. So I waited patiently for the third cab to come. After all, third tries are lucky. 

Finally, the third cab came. Hurriedly, I opened the backseat door and flung myself inside.

"San po?" the cabbie asked. "Sa Ortigas, manong." I answered, making myself comfortable .

"Ay, sa fairiview po ang punta ko na ngayon."

Arrrrrgggghhhhhh.

Glancing at my mutinous look, he said, "Pero ma'am, kase pagarahe na kase ako. Kung gusto niyo, dagdagan niyo na lang po ako." ("I was just about to go home. But if you want, I can take you there… provided that you give me an extra"). 

Normally, I would get out of the cab after giving the cabbie the evil eye… and possibly make him sweat by making a display of writing down his plate number.

But I'm hot and tired. And I can't let the night be completely ruined by subjecting to foul moods. Reaching for one shoe, I showed the thin pointy heel at the cabbie and reasoned, " Look, manong. See this? This is deadly. Especially, if I stick it in your neck and let it stay to make you bleed until you're dead."

Then I smiled sweetly and said, "Sa Ortigas po, Manong." And Manong, not quite understanding what I said but seeing the fragile thread of my sanity, drove me there.

PS: It's called hijacking, I know.

PPS: Suppose I made a miscalculation and I accidentally used my weapon, I have no cause for worries of being found out. I've never known any records holding foot thumbprints before.   Unless, of course, they do a Glass Slipper Search just like in Cinderella.

PPPS: Them deadly weapons: An alternative to pepper spray and mace. For the sake of your er… sensitive appendage down south, guys please think twice before you anger a woman wearing those kind of heels.

Hey, I’m just testing your curiosity.

      By the time I write this spoiler, it would be too late by then: Everybody had already read the book (thanks to National Bookstore's early reservation program since June) OR read it online.

But whattheheck! In some remote corners of the universe, there is still someone who has not read the book (or the .pdf file) yet… OR someone who for some strange reason, is still quite unspoiled by spoilers.

In a world that breeds gloating know-it-alls, spoilers are inevitable. And as a member of the gloatus know-it-alltus, I feel it my duty to impart knowledge that I've known before you.

Like 1) Dumbledore died. And 2) Snape killed Dumbledore.

And that's just for starters. You could click that tiny X mark at the top rightmost corner of this page if you wish to salvage some more suspense in your Potter reading. But anyweyz, if you're truly a fan of Potter, you wouldn't let some spoliers dampened your reading palate, would you?

Like when I say that 3) Ron and Hermione had finally gotten it on after dancing the obscure tune of "the more you hate, the more you love", you WILL still read the book to prove me wrong won't you?
 
That's right. Spoilers are tests to one's curiosity. And being so, it would be a service to the public if we would pay these spoilers forward.

Would you like to find out that there's a tamer scene of Spiderman 2's MaryJane and Peter Parker's "We can't be together because they're going to go after those people I love? It's totally devoid of histrionics, you know. And I'm thanking JK Rowling for it.

There's a new Minister of Magic. There's this Chosen One. There's this 4) Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley loveteam.

And a wedding will take place on the 7th book. And 5) it's Fleur and Bill's.

***

Lincoln 6 Echo (McGregor) lives in a seemingly utopian but contained facility. By "utopian but contained", I mean they were priviledge to have an automatic laundry system which launders your clothes in spotless perfection and transport it back to your closet… but you only get to wear white. The place is clean. There is enough food for everybody. The problem is, you can't choose bacon for your breakfast unless you try to sweet talk the lunch lady. You can't choose your lunch or dinner either. In fact, the residents of this "utopian containment" were not given that much choices.

So… let's see… wear only whites… eat only healthy food… be christened with odd names that befits a planet rather than a person…. and oh, given the fact that the opposite sex can't have physical contact for more than 10 seconds, there is *groan* not much sex going on.

Suddenly, the "seeming" in the seemingly utopian becomes more startling. And Lincoln 6 Echo went out to practice doubting (which most people in the containment unit seems to lack) and hoped to find something more than just waiting to be chosen to go to the Island (the only way out of the contained facility).

Soon, it was revealed that these residents are actually human clones whose only purpose in life is to be "spare parts" until they are ready to be "harvested".

And so, before they end up as liver donors or buttocks replacements, Lincoln 6 Echo and Jordan 2 Delta (Scarlett Johansson) made a daring escape out of the facility to live.

Hmmm… it was a good movie however, it was way too long. Like the director KNOWS the audience is liking the story and KNOWING this, he wanted to prolong lapping up the oooohhhs and aaaahhhs by extending the movie.

To those people who had already watched this movie, they know that this film ought to end when the clone Lincoln survived the real Lincoln. To those people who havent watched this, well… it half-sucks, but would you let me have the power to stop you from viewing this?

Un-Poeming, Un-prosing an Unlabelled Un

It’s funny how most poems conceived from coffee thoughts seem to be of love. It’s as if caffeine serves as love potion, and us, poor fools would always come back for this momentarily fix of addiction.

Just like I was obsessing about you, about me, about that tiny incident where a love poem was almost conceived by my coffee thoughts. A love poem that is a bit about you, a bit about me, but never - NEVER -  about us.

Nearly sunken memory, yet I could still remember that night at the coffeeshop: how, leaning back in our chairs to respect our 18 inches of personal space, we would nevertheless express regret by a chorus of sighs; how, entranced by the Sumatra beans dancing beneath my nose, I would let my eyes travel the curve of your face; how, eating intently the choco cake, you would avoid my stare; how, pausing, I would look down at my cup; and how, at that moment, it would be your turn to stare.

Never had the word platonic seems so unfriendly… for that night, we would cling desperately at the thought of our own commitments.

“I love her,” you said. ”I love him,” I said. Yet oddly, body languages would tell otherwise.

Who the hell were we kidding?

Passion simmered under restraint. Yearning burned chilled resolve. Teasing damned martyrs and ideals. A second more of each others company - we won’t be able to call ourselves as our own.

Do you want to taste the bittersweetness of this kiss? OR would you rather lick off the vapor that formed above my lips before everything mellowed without even a climax?
 
We were playing a game. But I prefer to call the moment, poetry.

****

PS: I was suppose to read this piece at the Phi Delta Alpha’s 48th Anniversary (the event was called A Night of Poetry and Music…. I think) at the Conspiracy Bar. But since I wrote this two hours before my actual performance, I got shitless scared because I haven’t practiced reading this one yet. So yeah, being the coward that I am, I seeked salvation in the form of my very old (and very gasgas) poem, Punctuations.

PPS: What do I mean by the title? Frankly, I don’t really know. It’s not a poem. It’s umm… a disjointed prose. Er… I guess. But anyweyz, I was writing it thinking that I NEED something to READ at the poetry reading…. AS IN ANYTHING. I figured that I would just vamp up my performance so people won’t notice that I wrote some shitty WHAT-NOTS.

PPPS: My muse is still absent. More on this later.

PPPPS: Oh, oh. I’ll save the absent muse for a very later posting. I remembered that I want to do a spoiler thingy first.

PPPPPS: I just love doing this post-post-post scripts. Hehe.

It goes both ways too, you know

It is quite unfair when men have us, women, peg down as compulsive buyers. As a woman who once bought neon pink socks by the dozen, I have no business denying that pronouncement. However, the opposite sex have to admit that there are also times that they experience momentarily lapse of frivolity.

One day, my father brought out a nifty binoculars that he bought in an Arab flea market. By nifty I mean that it has this infra-red vision that's good for finding warm bodies at night. And from the looks of the binoculars, it sure beats a remote control for its many buttons and dials.

Of course, since its toy for the boys, my three brothers and my cousin flock around Dad.

"Wow, this is cool!" Kuya Mone, my second eldest brother, said as he peered out the window through the binoculars. The other three blokes, on the other hand, each wore a mask of impatience as they impatiently wait for their turn. "Look! There's Boogie (our dog) humping the next-street neighbours' dog ! Whoa! I can even zoom this in gigantic proportion!"

Unimpressed, I retorted, "Sure, sure. You could spot a pimple on an eagle's beak within 1,000 yards from where you are, but really… how do you guys plan to use that thing?"

Then in a jiffy, you could hear their un-oiled mental hinges creaking in motion, simultaneously thinking of how best to utilize my father's toy.

I mean, c'mon, whatever will you do with a hunting type of binoculars in the city? Sure, you could hear city folks refer fondly to the city as a "jungle" but I am inclined to think that you need your ATM more for the hunting and gathering here rather than a pair of nightvision Bushnell.

"Weeell," Kuya Vic, my eldest brother said slowly, "We could go hunting when we go to Zambales."

"Yes! Yes!" Dad said excitedly, "Lets!"

And cacophony of excitement went among the boys.

"We don't have a tent."
"Then let's buy one."
"Nahhh, let's just buy some sleeping bags and sleep without any protection. That'll be cool."
"Ahhh… this reminds me of my boyscout years!"
"What else will we bring?"

So while they were discussing tin foils and swiss knives, listening to them reminded me of myself whenever I went about coordinating my wardrobe. I remember the time I bought a yellow and green beads necklace just to match the pair of jelly green clogs that I impulsively bought despite knowing that it can't be matched with anything I already owned. On parallel plane, the boys are planning on buying stuffs that would coordinate for the use of the binoculars.

"Do you guys even know how to fire a rifle?" I interrupted skeptically.

"We could practice first on tin cans!" my youngest brother, Chek, chirped.

"And what, pray tell, with your novice abilities can you shoot in the dark? Supposing you guys are going to use that infra-red thingy that binoculars has."

"Aetas?" my cousin, Eugene replied.

"Alright, alright," Kuya Vic started, " maybe we won't use it for hunting. But this baby sure can spot missing warm bodies in the dark!"

They won't give up. They simply won't give up.

"Like mosquitoes you mean?" I suggested sarcastically.

"Like if Boogie decided to run away. " Kuya Mone said defiantly. "We could use it to find him."

"Ruh-hyt. With the infra-red stuck in your eyes, you'd not only manage to locate every stray dogs in the village, but also manage to look like a dork." I countered.

"Well, we could use it to locate straying carabaos at night when we go to the province, " Dad replied.

"Or lost goats!"
"Lost chickens!"
"Lost ducks!"
"Lost turkeys!"

Yep. Men would find even the craziest idea just so they could escaped being accused what they accused us women.

"Or mosquitoes!" Chek grinned.

And they won't give up. They simply won't give up.

Eyeball

My mother is a veritable people-magnet. It would come as no surprise that somebody would be so tenacious in inviting her to a party even if it means calling to our house every half an hour to check if my mother already came home.

She arrived at around 9:00 in the evening.

"Did somebody called me?" My mother asked.

"Yep. A Mrs. Santos called almost a dozen times."

"Oh!  My coffee customer! What did she said?"

"Wouldn't say."

So she phoned her Mrs. Santos. Ten minutes of chitchat, she announced:

"We are going over to Mrs. Santos."

"Sounds urgent. Is she sick or something?," I inquired, "Gasp! She's in her deathbed and she wants you to see her because you are an heir to her vast collection of ummm… coffee jars? "

Apparently, dear Mrs. Santos just turned 70 today. Naturally, my mother, despite the fact that it's nearing 10 in the evening, is bone-tired, and is yearning to have her weary body kiss the face of her mattress, simply can't say "no" to someone who just turned 70.

"… she said we are her special guests and that we'd surely break her heart if we won't come." Nope. She really can't say "no". Especially to a septuagenarian who does emotional blackmail.

"By "we" that means…?"

"Call your Ate Aida and Ate Anna. The four of us are going. That's what I mean by "we".
 

Of course, I thought that three escorts were too much for an entourage so I generously declined the position to eat *yawn* party food at *yawn* that old lady's party. But mother became prosaic about the old lady wanting to see a spawn of hers that I decided to un-declined my generosity to indulge my mother's wish to brag me about. After all, being breathing trumph cards is just one of those duties a spawn serves to its parent/s.

"So where does the old lady live?" I asked. My mother mentioned the name of a poorly lighted village with excitable canines usually found wandering about the streets. "Is she still sprightly?"

"I wouldn't know. I haven't seen her yet."
"Huh? How does she buys coffee from us?"

"Oh she just phones in to order some and then sends someone to get the coffee for her."

"It's funny that she considers us her "very special guests" when she haven't seen us yet." I mused, "Didn't her family came to her birthday?"

"Her family is there alright," my mother replied. "Now stop asking too much and get dressed. It's already 10 in the evening, and we, as the only outsiders, shouldn't be so paimportante."

3) They are cannibals and we *gasps* are dinner!

<Insert Twilight Zone theme song here>

Then we finally arrived at the Santoses. To my utter disappointment, my weird-dar has been confoundly mislead: Mrs. Santos has no fangs and does not suffer from porphyria cutanea tarda (or in layman's term: pale skin disease); she doesn't look like ET either. She looks just like anybody's granny. Well, she would be just like any stereotypical granny (who rocks herself back and forth in the tumba-tumba) if not for her favorite past time: basketball.

"Laly," Mrs. Santos called, referring to my mother, "One of these days, if my arthritis is not bothering me, I'd like a one-on-one match with you." My mother, who is rather like me shirking away from any sports involving bouncing balls, could only come up with a weak smile in response.

*weird-dar beeping*

Hmmm… if I were to indulge my hyperactive imagination I would think that the coffee has something to do with ….

PS: currently lost in thought

Religion Wars

Sometimes,  a mother and daughter relationship is like Christianity vs. Islam. One or the other always wanted to be the top banana in the Crusade.

***

To those people who really knows me KNOWS that they don’t really know me. Can’t blame them. I welcome questions like I welcome a porcupine’s embrace. Add to that, I flit around social circles like a goggle-eyed dragonfly.

My mother had the same problem too. She claims she doesn’t know me. I suppose, it’s partly my fault as to why this is the case. The thing is though, when you grew up trained to have only your shadow as your confidant, you get used to keeping things to yourself. Plus, I used to really hate arguements, so whenever I’m about to encounter one, I automatically would raise the white flag and allow myself to get pushed in whatever direction they wanted me to go.

The time I was fourteen, I discovered that I have a mouth. With that discovery also came the realization that I can use it to greater use. Bravely, I went up to my mother and said, "Ma, I no longer want my bedroom walls to be white. I want it orange." I argued about the virtue of changes and that one’s aesthetic preference should be exercise. My mother agreed. So she started exercising her own preference and change my walls a dull cream color.

Two years later, she grew busy with her businesses and pack off her coin-operated girl into a very nice Jesuit college somewhere in Quezon City. 

It was, at those times, that I did I very good job at screwing my life around.

***

I grew a backbone after several falls. My mother, though, called it "horns" instead of backbone. The day I started going out wearing a blouse without any sleeves was the day she realizes that she has been a very neglectful mother. She realizes that her ex-choirgirl doll of a daughter has developed a mind of her own.

"That blouse makes you look like a hooker," my mother commented as she eyed a ruffled red blouse with plunging neckline. "Red is too racy. Wear pink instead."

"Ma," screwing close the lipstick tube, I answered, "pink makes me look blotchy. And besides, I know I look good in red."

"Hmmmp." She frowned as she crosses her arms.  "But the neckline is too deep. Eyes will feast on you!"

"Then let them look. If you got it, flaunt it." I winked at her, then looked back at the mirror to fix my hair.

She picked up a thin black paperback lying on top of my pillow. The cover doesn’t have any title in it, so she flipped it open to the first page.

"Aiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!!!! Why are you keeping a satanist’s book???" her nostril flared like Seabiscuit on a bad mood. "What satanist’s book?" raising an eyebrow, I looked at the book she’s waving in front of my face. Ang Paboritong Libro ni Hudas by Bob Ong, it read. I stiffled a laugh.

"Ma, read it. It’s good." And then maybe you’ll stop judging a book by its cover, I thought.

"I don’t want to. It’s looks scary." Throwing the book back into my bed.

"Then you’ll never get to know that it’s actually a Book of Prediction saying that Donita Rose is going to be the next Pope." I said lightly.

My mother just rolled her eyes, left my room and muttered something that sounds suspiciously like, "heretic". The next day, I found a rosary and a missalette under my pillow.

Boy, tough old cookies needed to lighten up sometimes.

***

A week after the Pinoypoets Anniversary, I parked my sociable ass inside the house and reviewed for my rusty domestic capabilities. One of our household help that time, you see, was in limbo-love with her security guard boyfriend and she told me she was thinking of marrying the labopherlyp… which would leave us with the other help whose only specialty in the kitchen is boiled water.

My basic instinct told me that should I ever wanted to eat something edible again, I ought to start channeling the Martha Stewart in me. Holding the fridge door open and trying to contemplate what dish I could concoct with only button mushrooms on hand, I heard a loud "Aha!" in my room.

That sound doesn’t surprise me anymore. My mother, much as I love her, would always snoop for secrets inside her daughter’s room. When I was younger, we used to have a row regarding "respecting each other’s space". But then, I never get to cure her out of this irritating habit. Sometimes, in my most insane mood, I wanted to hide a naked boy inside my closet, place a whole pot of doobie in my desk, and plant a M2 .50 Cal machine gun in the middle of room.

"One… two… three…" Sure enough, at the count of five, my mother appeared before me holding a packet of condom. "What is this?" She asked as her basilisk glare waited for an answer.

"It’s condom, Ma." I was cool as cold cream. It was all I could do to stop myself from rolling my eyes in her view. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful but I thought that she was acting very theatrical at the sight of a contraception. Sure, I already know that she has beliefs as old as the Paleozoic Era, but supposing that I do have an active fornication campaign, she should at least consider that she sure isn’t going to have an unplanned grand kid from me.

"I know it’s condom," her nose was still flaring, "What I wanted to know is why you have it in your purse?"

Now dearest of readers, why do you suppose a single girl who gets drunk and pose nekkid for fun have a pack of condom in her bag?

a) Because she just joined an outreach program for abandoned children and she needed "plastic balloons" for entertainment?

b) Because she was absent in her sex ed class during high school and she’s just curious as to the types of contraceptions?

c) Because she’s a girl scout and would like to be ready in case she "bumped" into a cute guy in the dairy section of the grocery store?

Whatever you choose, please try again until you ran out of options.

"Remember my poetry org’s anniversary at Conspiracy? Well, Frenzy Condom is one of the sponsors. I took home a whole bag of it, in case you didn’t notice the green bag sitting in my desk." I explained. "You want some?" I teased her.

"Pfffft." She huffed and threw up her hands in the air. Her basilisk glare melted, then she walked out of the kitchen.

I guess that means that she won’t be snooping inside my room so soon. Again, I disappointed her at the tameness of my answer. Maybe in time, she’ll come to realize that her crazy daughter isn’t really as crazy as she seems to be.

And when that time comes, boy… I will surely miss the basilisk glare.

Naaaahh.

Pretty Pink Stuff and Other Beet Root Stories

This morning.

The clock reads 7:02 am. If it wasn't for my anal circadian rhythm, I would still be burried under the sheets having tea party with Mr. Sandman. I sat up. My eyes dazely circled the room I was in for a whole five minutes before my brain cells started to register in my head that I was, in fact, in my own room.

Hallelujah for miracles! I can't fuckin' remember anything but at least I managed to haul my drunk butt back to my house!

I jumped up, went to the bedside window  and greeted the warbling tweety birds outside: "Good Morning, Sunshine!"

"Whoa. Now that's a good morning!" Someone answered me back. I smiled and waved. It took a vanity mirror to tell me that I just flashed the neighbor's son.

***

Last midnight.

Around twelve-ish at Tapika, I greeted Ani's birthday with a bang: I was allegedly spotted having a bonding session with the toilet… inside the men's room. If that wasn't mortifying to my must-still-be-able-to-pass-the-drunk-line-test ideals, I imposed my leaded arse to my friend Jojo who, had he known he's gonna have to carry the daughter of Flubber, wished that he'd spend more time pumping irons at the gym rather than admire brush strokes inside art galleries.

It was the pretty pink stuff's fault, I tell you. How, in all things cute and… and… pink, could I ever resist the cool "strawberry juice" laid before unsuspecting me? How, in all things blithe but ignorant, could I ever guess that the alcohol biting my throat wasn't 10% vodka but 50%rum instead?

"Hmmm… what's in this? I can't taste any alcohol in it, " I asked Steph as I happily guzzled the drink. In between my bacchial existence of drinking the pink stuff and stuffing nachos in my mouth, I was also trying to finish off a bottle of beer. I was in my superman mode (translation: stupid, stupid, stupid), thinking that no kryptonites could ever stop me.

Ruh-hyt. I know better now.

Next time, I'm gonna bring a barf bag with me so I won't hafta puke in the men's room.

***

This afternoon.

I'm at Coffee Beanery (Don Antonio) still nursing the most terrible hangover I've ever had. Downing my second cup of brewed coffee, Larry texted, "Hello, Van. How's you?"

"I still feel like barfing, thanks for asking." I muttered under my breathe. Sixteen hours after my faux pas, I still look like a cast from Nights of the Living Dead. No amount of concealer and blush on could help me on this state.

"Currently wallowing in shame. My drunken scene had spread in my org like wild fire." I texted back. I've only known this guy for just a few weeks and already, I was volunteering information that could make future prospects label me as "Specimen B: Not Suitable to Bring Home to Mama." Yeah, baby. This girl doesn't know how to hold back. Next week, maybe I'll volunteer that I have a mole in my….

"Hahahahaha. Much like many before who has achieved fame via alcohol induced euphoria. I commend you." Larry replied.

Suddenly, choirs of angels sang. A train of bright light came pouring down on me, making me squeeze a few tears. Last night wasn't shameful. It was actually commendable.

Now I know why people miss me whenever I'm not around. It's because they never have to hire somebody for entertainment. I, in my five-ft-flat frame, can perform different kinds of amusement in all kinds of occassion - without even trying. All I have to do is just be myself and viola! my deeds go down in archives and are always relived in gatherings.

Ain't that commendable?

Date Ruinator

I went shopping at my favorite bargain bin and look what I found:

When I would actually see someone wear this top, I would think that:

1) There must be a circus opening nearby and
2) Someone is going to get dumped on a date despite the mountain-high confidence.

I don't know what the designer is aiming to do, but you know what? I swear, you'll get mistaken as a parakeet when you wear this.

But hey, this isn't that bad, you know… Maybe, just to match the top, you ought to highlight your hair with pink tint (use Kool-Aid for economical purposes) and then perhaps add some blings for some shine and some feather boa hat for some shwing ding panache. Don't forget snakeskin boots and then rhinestone buckle for the final touch.

Now, you're ready to go pimping.  

Soliloquy Sundae on a Sunday

         There is nothing like watching a cup of icecream slowly melting into a pool of calories to remind you how slow this Sunday is. I was out of the house reclined in a stone chair which is situated beside our dinky garden, stirring absently on the chocolate icecream I bought from the neighborhood's Manong Sorbetero while talking to my mother's Cattleya. Yes dearest of readers, striking a conversation with inanimate objects has always been my favorite past time when I'm all alone; runner-up is initiating a dialogue with my reflection in front of my vanity mirror.

Anyweyz. My mom's cattleya is a good listener: it never butts in while you're talking (unlike some buttheads I know that can talk faster than the proverbial speeding bullet); it just sits there in its charcoaled pot listening to me whine about the perplexity of existence.

"You know, " I started, "Man always has been maltreating their brain cells when they always question about the meaning of things." The cattleya nodded its head, as if already agreeing to me despite the fact that I haven't even warmed up to my point. " For example, there's this one guy who said he was puzzled as to what is the purpose of poetry in life. He said, (*making a quote-unquote gesture in the air* )"I read old poems and I never seem to get what their goal is, if there ever was."

"Of course, " I continued, "I felt so blasphemized that I was tempted to draw my light sabre and challenge him to a duel to death for the honor of poetry." A slight wind blew and made the cattleya nod again, perhaps, agreeing to what the wind whispered that I might've loosened a few screws in my head. I went on, "But I thought that challenging a dimwit will make me more of a dimwit so I just said something like: 'goals depended on the poet not on the poetry as poems are just the chosen medium for self-expression.' I expounded by citing Neruda for his political activism that rings in some of his early poems.

"I guess that dumbo never really read pass Joyce Kilmer's Trees which isn't really a sterling example to make illegal loggers grow some conscience." I snorted as I touched the cattleya to help bob its head. "Anyweyz, the search for meanings is always a crazy, bumpy ride. A meaning is depended on an explanation that will suit the logic (or illogic) of the searcher. F*ck, come to think of it, meanings are as hazy as long distance relationships."

"A thing could rack up to ten thousand meanings, to a mere ten, to a resounding "nada".  And in thinking of meanings, would it be absolutely futile to look for certainty when everything could be anything? Or even, nothing?"

"So," looking at the pot of orchid, "If you nod your head and I applied meaning to it saying that you seem to agree to me as it is archetypal that a nod is a "yes", when in an unknown fact in some flower universe, a nod really means, "shut up bozo, I'm trying to get on my beauty sleep so I could attract Mr. Bumblebee to pollinate me".

Of course, the cattleya could only bob its head in response. 

PS: What happened to the sundae? Good question. Now please continue the search for your question using the phenomenologic stance of Heidegger. 

(picture above was by garrit of deviantart.com)

The Mistress of my Bilbil

When I was 18 years old, I made up a list of "To-Do List Before I Hit 30" (or TDB30) and then came up with a hundred and five things that my repressed former choirgirl self wouldn't have thought of doing. I know, i know… coming up with a hundred plus kookiness, you can just imagine how repressed I was.

PS: If you wanted to show your bilbil too, you can contact Ana, Marlon's photo assistant, at 7258518. The studio is at Art Informal, 277 Connecticut St. in Greenhills.

This is sooooo happening!!!

I really have to hand it to the council of Pinoypoets. They are really doing a great job in making sure that our anniversary is going to be a success:

Chuvah no? May press release pa! Hehe.

Celebration of life at twenty-two teen

I love life. I love dreaming what could be done in this petri dish and then dreaming more of how I could do more than peek outside it.

I love chocolates. I love those melty,sweety, gooey symbol of endorphin kick vital as balm to all negative "chi" in being.

I love my body. I love it dressed, I love it bared. I love every curves, every sweet spots, every sentient pores felt by the whispers of wind, tongues of rays of sun, tickle of running water, enveloping dirt of earth, and loving lover's hands.

I love gummy bears. Tuck inside my mouth, its softness cradled on my tongue: made me realize that I will be swallowing a great deal of sourness despite the deceptively easy living. On that occasion, I might choose either to gag then spit, or to take it all down.

I love the early stages of love when you still can't get enough of each other. This promise of bliss is what keeps me in believing still in Cupid's agendas.

I love coffee despite the fact that I developed hyperacidity because of it.

I love poetry. Especially those that can make me feel.

I love beer. I love the camaraderie formed inside the intoxicated circle of trust. I love how you lose your inhibitions: making you do things you wouldn't do when sober; telling things your guts wouldn't spill when otherwise. And best of all, when you totally weird/freaked out people you could always say the universal BS (bullshit) excuse: "I was drunk."

I love skirts. I love the feel of the wind playing at the edges of my skirts. I love the feel of femininity, of making me feel softer, and of making me feel vulnerable.

I love the rainy days more than the summer days. I love walking under these pouring droplets, drenching me like a wet puppy, clothes clinging heavily at me… the sky crying, with me - only me - listening, experiencing, feeling its every woes.

I love kisses. I believe that a kiss is the thumbprint of your soul, the fashion of your loving, the reflection of your emotions.

I love my friends. They are the family that I chose for myself.

I love my family. They are the only dependable thing on Earth.

I love the date today. I just turned twenty-two teen.

I love those people who remembered to greet me a "Happy Twenty-Two Teen" and wished me a "May you have many more Boyfriends to come".

I love living. I love this life.

I love me.

And all these stuff I love just made me feel unafraid to age a hundred years more.

Wanpol, Dobol, Tripol Whammy

Maaksyon ang araw na ito:

Una, bartdey namin ni Joe (Rizal) ngayon. Twenty-two teen na ako, siya ay… ummm… teka, maya ko na i-google search yung taon ng kapanganakan niya. Wag niyo ng itanong kung bakit "Vanessa" at hindi "Rizalina" ang ipinangalan sa akin kase baka batukan ako ng nanay ko kapag sinabi ko yung rason… (pero kung pinilit niyo akong magkwento eh bibigay ako… *ngiting pwedeng papilit*)

Pangalawa, ngayon ang recording session ng CD (Ora poetika) ng Pinoypoets na kung saan ay eekstra ako bilang reader ng tulang "Unang Buhos" ni mareng Kathline Tolosa. Sa kasawiang palad, wala ako sa Maynila sa araw na ito. Buti na lang at si mareng Ergoe Tinio ang sumaklolo't ginampanan niya ang aking naiwan na gawain. 

Pangatlo, araw ng ating mga Paders ngayon. Para sa aking Dydy, *hugs*

P.S:

Bili po tayong lahat ng bangis na bangis na llibrong ito bilang suporta sa mabangis na unggoy na ito:

One time Poetess

Punctuations

Vanessa Academia

Distance is the bitch
that stole you away from me…

I imagine -
Our story is made mostly of
sentences ending not in
     period
but in question marks
(My question marks)

It should be good, as period seems fatal
and these questions? A continuity -
Only, answers are ever evasive,
and delayed further by a jungle of
commas, ellipses…

Ah, we just found ourselves,
once again, in a

[pause]